We Don’t Talk

I sit in my recliner — much as he
would have — with his feet
at the end of my legs.

But, we don’t talk.

I see genetics at work when I’m tired
and rub my eyes
with the heel of my hand .

But, we don’t talk.

I have heard the anger of his voice
directed at my children,
but coming from my mouth,

But, we don’t talk.

I have learned through observation
the art of bitterness
and long held grudges.

We don’t talk.